


rehearsed actions of an innocent and anxious love

by spock



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - All Media Types
Genre: Bedsharing, Bickering, Bittersweet, Canadian Shack, Dry Humping, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mission Fic, Pining, Sharing Body Heat, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-16 08:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4619313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's waiting, and then there's hoping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rehearsed actions of an innocent and anxious love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theoldgods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/gifts).



It's something of a holiday, the way that they've been sequestered away in the sprawling Russian tundra whilst the rest of their countrymen roar their celebrations in Piccadilly. Jim's never been one for crowds, for joyousness; their current situation suits him just fine.

Bill is, of course, rather put-out to have missed it.

 

*

 

They sit, and they watch. Jim mastered the two actions very early on in his life, has made a career out of being especially skilled at them, at knowing when to watch — and when to take action.

There's no action to be taken here, not until they're ordered to do so, which in and of itself isn't a guarantee, and as a result he can feel his mind begging to have something else to focus on, another variable to track, so used to juggling more than one target as he is.

So, he watches Bill as well.

 

*

 

One of them is always supposed to be on watch. Out of solidarity they've kept to one another's pockets, never straying too far from their grand Russian tower, such as it is.

Jim can only take so much inaction.

"I'm going for a run." His boots aren't particularly suited to the task, but he's made do with less.

"A _run_ ," Bill says.

Jim knows that it's a statement, rather than a question, but he can't help but respond to it. "Would you rather —"

"No, no," Bill speaks over him, flicking his wrist so that his palm and fingers point lazily to the stone ceiling of their nest, Bill's own version of communion, absolving Jim of his strange desires and permitting him to partake in them all the same. "You'll run enough for the both of us, I'm sure. Do try to make it back in one piece."

Jim's runs become more frequent after that. He goes once in the morning, and then again just before it's his turn to take over watch. They work in shifts, their waking hours overlapping only rarely. Two passing ships in the night, though they're seemingly cursed to remain stuck in port.

"Do you remember," Bill begins to say, as if he's only half-remembered it himself. He drops down onto their shared bed, readying himself to sleep just as Jim readies himself to watch. Jim had only just risen from that same bed minutes ago. He thinks about the residual heat and how it’s now being used to warm Bill's body, and finds himself having to release a slow, drawn out breath.

"What, in '41?" Jim offers, just to give his lungs something to do besides collapse in on themselves.

"No." Bill shoots him a look, always terribly bothered when Jim interrupts whatever it is that he's trying to say.

"Ah," Jim says, and then, just because he can, and because he likes to think of himself as rather a bit of a shit when wants to be, he adds, "Then Monaco, perhaps? Possibly Yorkshire? Certainly not Paris, we agreed not to speak about that. Wait — _no_ , you couldn't possibly want to bring up anything as old as Oxford? You haven't even had something to drink."

"Yes, yes, do you remember at bloody fucking Oxford," Bill tries again.

Jim finds his mood suddenly lifted, feeling practically giddy. "Yes, and —"

"Two hours, honestly," Bill agrees. He's got his lips upturned, just slightly, his true smile, not unlike his fake one, truth be told. The difference between the two is distinguishable not by the lack of a sarcastic lilt to his face, but due to the warmth in his eyes. Jim's never been as self-contained as Bill manages, certainly not when he's around Bill, and so when he returns the sentiment his lips are spread wide, through his gaze is just as warm.

They rarely do this when they're alone, saving their half-spoken conversations for instances where others may be listening-in, or as a means to aggravate the other boys working at the Circus, showing them how it is to be a _real_ spy.

They rarely speak when they're alone, truly. There's hardly any point when you know what a person's response will be.

The company more than makes up for the silence.

 

*

 

Jim has always felt that he exists in a constant state between hope and waiting. It's the situation that dictates which of the two he is to experience.

Regardless of where they are in the world, no matter how separated he may be from Bill, Jim _hopes_. Jim is so full of hope at times that he feels he may burst with it.

He has hopes that have grown, day by day, since the first time he set eyes on Bill. Ones that don't make much sense in the context that he's grown to know Bill exists, ones that he dreamed up when Bill was nothing more than an idea in his head. Jim cannot bring himself to lay to bed anything when it comes to Bill, so he holds close and tends to even those hopes that he no longer wishes to see realized.

He has ones that do make sense, ones that he invented as recently as the day before, ones that are realized in his dreams and that seem so real, so plausible, that it takes him a moment to grasp they aren't true once he's woken up from them. Ones that Bill could make a reality, if only he'd give Jim an inch, if only he'd put forth a modicum of effort to take what they already have between them and turn it into something more.

Waiting, however, has nothing at all to do with hope, and everything to do with the inevitable. Waiting is what happens when he and Jim are thrust together for whatever reason, dictated only by however long they have together. An hour long meeting at the Circus means a shorter wait time, purely by necessity. A weekend ferreted away allows for more possibilities, with a greater possible wait time as a result. It’s always bound to happen, the only question is a matter of _when_.

For a mission like this, with no timeframe and no estimated end, the wait seems endless.

 

*

 

Bill eventually does go for a run, his sloth-like temperament finally beaten down by so many weeks of inactiveness.

He returns, not forty minutes later, soaking wet and with an ankle teetering dangerously on the edge of being sprained.

"So this is how I am to die," Bill says, his lifelong flair for the dramatic all in preparation for this very moment. "In a stone tower — in the God-forsaken Russian wildness, a soaked corpse cradled in your arms."

Jim helps him undress, peeling away the layers upon layers that they both wear, a means to insulate their warmth but, with Bill soaked as he is, now only serve to keep the damp chill pressed into his bones. By the time they've got him naked, the chill has fully settled into Bill's core, his frame shaking, a tremble that Bill won't be able to control.

"Just keep your eyes open and you'll be fine," Jim replies.

He settles them by the fire for a while, Bill between his legs, his back resting against Jim's front as the heat works some warmth back into his body, drying the dampness from his skin.

"The feeling in my arse has returned," Bill says, glib. "Let's move this to the bed, shall we? I'm not terribly keen to sit on this floor any longer."

Jim does as he's bid, grabbing hold of Bill's arm as he hobbles over the side of the room where their bed rests. Bill's overly casual as he says, "Shouldn't you be getting naked as well? Shared body heat, and all that?"

"You fell into a snowbank, not a lake." Jim shakes his head with a laugh, letting Bill drop down onto the mattress, a terribly put-off look etched onto his face.

Once Bill is settled under the duvet, Jim slides into the bed beside him. "How's this?" He pulls Bill into his chest, lifting his leg so that one of Bill's can slide between both of his own, feels the way that Bill's erection pushes into his stomach, undoubtedly creating a stain in one of the few shirts Jim owns. As Bill ruts himself against Jim’s body, Jim thinks about how he'll remember this each time his eye catches sight of the slightly discolored spot. Bill drifts off into sleep not long after he’s reached his completion.

Jim thinks about how despite Bill's natural inclination towards lethargy, Bill remains one of the most sure-footed people Jim knows, especially when there aren’t any external pressures rushing him. Jim knows that there is none more skilled at making people do whatever it is he wants them to do as Bill is. There are even less who are as meticulous at creating situations that give them exactly the result they want.

Jim thinks about how he knows Bill better than any other who has ever lived, who will ever live, and how Bill knows that, has never doubted it. It is a fact that is accepted unequivocally by all who know them, and that exists in the reverse as well.

He thinks about how Bill knows that Jim is well aware of what Bill did, and why Bill did it, and yet he still dropped himself into a snowbank. He took this roundabout way of getting what he wanted, as if he were nervous, as if he thought he had to construct a situation to make it happen or else it wouldn't have of happened otherwise. As if Jim would ever tell him no, with regards to anything. As if all the time they’ve spent since setting foot in this tower hadn't been the latest chapter in their ever-continued _waiting_.

Jim thinks about all of these things, and hopes.

 

*

 

The thing about waiting is that once one is over, another wait begins.


End file.
